When did I turn into my father?
My dad dropped off a bowl of his infamous peanut brittle on my desk last night with a cute little card that says the following:
DANGER!
*No Artificial Sweeteners
*Unhealthy for those on Diets
*Low Fat, High Sugar Content
*Not Recommended for Diabetics
*Contains Peanuts
*Non Nutritive Formula (low protein, no roughage)
Consumption Hazard – May Cause Addiction
This just gives me the warm fuzzies because he is SO incredibly proud of this peanut brittle. Apparently over the years people have complimented him enough on the recipe that he now hands out recipe cards with everything you need to know about his special treats except for what he calls the “secret ingredient,” aka the brand of butter that “makes the flavor.”
I, of course, play along with his little game by spreading the gospel of his peanut brittle to friends near and far, passing taste-testers around the office, and offering to make some for neighbors but always report back that his secret is safe with me.
This is only one of the infinite number of quirky things my dad and I do together. We both are prone to wipe anything on our hands off on our clothes—preferably the pant leg region. Both of us go into what my mom has deemed “bulldozer mode” when we really need to get something done. Our eyes get wide enough that you can see the whites all the way around the irises, and we insist that we can “handle it” ourselves. AND We both indulge in occasional public hand-holding that sometimes makes strangers think he’s a cradle robber—I’m not sure he’s aware of this last one.
What I’ve discovered in the last couple of weeks is that, whether I like it or not, I have also inherited my dad’s penchant for worrying obsessively. I never worry about the important things like making enough money to pay the bills or whether friends are upset at me. Rather, I spend my time worrying about things that are out of my control and usually hold the potentiality of approximately .0019% of actually happening. This particular habit intensifies when my dad isn’t around to do it for me.
Exhibit A: Dad goes out of town. Mom’s health starts acting up. I proceed to worry that she’ll wind up in a hospital in Pomona and no one from her work will call me because I don’t live at home anymore. Then, my brain follows this through to the logical conclusion that they would call my brother, he would get woozy at the hospital, and the both of them would be in beds alongside each other before I knew what hit me.
Exhibit B: Friend flies home for Christmas and promises to call me upon landing. After a day and a half I have convinced myself that they are probably dead and the likelihood of me getting the news within the month is slim to nil because I am nowhere close to next-of-kin and no one with them knows I exist.
Isn’t it fun how holidays bring family together?
DANGER!
*No Artificial Sweeteners
*Unhealthy for those on Diets
*Low Fat, High Sugar Content
*Not Recommended for Diabetics
*Contains Peanuts
*Non Nutritive Formula (low protein, no roughage)
Consumption Hazard – May Cause Addiction
This just gives me the warm fuzzies because he is SO incredibly proud of this peanut brittle. Apparently over the years people have complimented him enough on the recipe that he now hands out recipe cards with everything you need to know about his special treats except for what he calls the “secret ingredient,” aka the brand of butter that “makes the flavor.”
I, of course, play along with his little game by spreading the gospel of his peanut brittle to friends near and far, passing taste-testers around the office, and offering to make some for neighbors but always report back that his secret is safe with me.
This is only one of the infinite number of quirky things my dad and I do together. We both are prone to wipe anything on our hands off on our clothes—preferably the pant leg region. Both of us go into what my mom has deemed “bulldozer mode” when we really need to get something done. Our eyes get wide enough that you can see the whites all the way around the irises, and we insist that we can “handle it” ourselves. AND We both indulge in occasional public hand-holding that sometimes makes strangers think he’s a cradle robber—I’m not sure he’s aware of this last one.
What I’ve discovered in the last couple of weeks is that, whether I like it or not, I have also inherited my dad’s penchant for worrying obsessively. I never worry about the important things like making enough money to pay the bills or whether friends are upset at me. Rather, I spend my time worrying about things that are out of my control and usually hold the potentiality of approximately .0019% of actually happening. This particular habit intensifies when my dad isn’t around to do it for me.
Exhibit A: Dad goes out of town. Mom’s health starts acting up. I proceed to worry that she’ll wind up in a hospital in Pomona and no one from her work will call me because I don’t live at home anymore. Then, my brain follows this through to the logical conclusion that they would call my brother, he would get woozy at the hospital, and the both of them would be in beds alongside each other before I knew what hit me.
Exhibit B: Friend flies home for Christmas and promises to call me upon landing. After a day and a half I have convinced myself that they are probably dead and the likelihood of me getting the news within the month is slim to nil because I am nowhere close to next-of-kin and no one with them knows I exist.
Isn’t it fun how holidays bring family together?
Labels: Theories
posted by Mel at
2:33 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home